


While I'm Here

by Inde



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Between long-distance pining and pride in his accomplishments, Domestic, Emotional Constipation, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Going between fun dinner parties and declining health, M/M, Other, Semi/Non-Linear Narrative, There is a plot and it's sad so here is your warning, What I'm trying to say is that I love him a lot, Where you are most certainly referred to as Cariño, You live together in a house in California by the sea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-01-25 07:37:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12526300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inde/pseuds/Inde
Summary: Short stories about your time with the Blackwatch commander, Gabriel Reyes.





	1. Just For Now

*

“You’ve been quiet this morning,” Gabriel says as he leans forward in his seat.

He tone is measured when he speaks, each word taut with restraint to reinforce exactly what it is he means. _You’ve hardly said a word to me._ The way he speaks matches the way he looks towards you. There’s careful consideration in his gaze; he knows when you’re not yourself— and you’re not yourself today. You’re self-adjacent, at best, hovering over or next to your body but not entirely present. He noticed earlier but only says so now as you sit across from him on the other side of the sofa, defensively curled into yourself, posture inherently suggesting that a coldness lingers.

Concern tilts his head, stiffens his shoulders and the deliberate tone continues.

“Something is wrong. I know you.”

Ultimately, Gabriel breaking the preserved stillness forces you back into awareness. You feel the dimensions of the room around you once again, restored. Familiar milk-white plastered walls, textile's subtle sheen from the upholstery you're sitting on. Pulling him into focus, the words creep off your tongue. “You’re leaving soon, that’s what’s wrong.” _Again, already._

You say the first thing, you keep the second to yourself.

Gabriel nods in voiceless acknowledgement; he used to do so with a slow surrender but it has become a gesture of painful neutrality over time. There is nothing in his immediate power that he can do to change the circumstances, his efforts and loyalty have bound him to his duty. Ten of wands: over-commited, unable to separate. So, he moves where Blackwatch takes him, though combat and conflict, through violence that leaves marks of possession over him. He moves like blood flowing through arteries and veins, circling about the body. And while you know this better than anyone, knowing does not and never will stop reality from smothering you. 

You add, because keeping the words to yourself becomes harder the more you think and experience the meanings, "If I get you to myself for a week,  _work_ takes you away for two."

The living room becomes supernaturally quiet at that like the last line in a stage play. You wait for the fade out, the controlled dim of a theatre but the early-afternoon light persists, breaking across the rug, breaking across the bookshelves and the paintings. The light breaks over Gabriel’s face and you are reminded once again that it was no great coincidence how he was named after an angel. His eyes are notoriously hard to read even as the sun infiltrates them. They are always alive and aware but when the dark in them lifts, they become almost translucent. A smoky quartz. His are eyes that you know and love well; it feels like a form of cruelty when he turns his face away. His features twist with the softest of irritation as he redirects his attention over the coffee table towards a ceramic mug giving off weak plumes of steam.

You’re right, but he _isn’t_ wrong for it and the logic creates a multitude of problems. Gabriel is too much of a problem-solver to not find offence in you saying so.

“I’ll come back sooner if I can.” There is an irrevocability in the way he says this. He shifts in his seat, the awareness of his white-lie sitting at the base of his spine.

You stare at the side of his face, taking in the profile of soldier you are always missing even when he is right there in front of you. You are thankful when he moves closer and closes the space between you but you are breathless when his chin comes to rest on your shoulder.

He purrs in your ear, “I’m here now.”

You are lightheaded at his heat. His scent is easily overwhelming when it filters through your lungs though your shallow inhalations. You are suddenly convinced that you could be blindfolded and still able to recognize his presence before you— something about Gabriel had always resonated so deeply within you, a stake of great importance. It was complicated in that way; your love for him took on its own consciousness, subliminal and irreversible. Life without him would be… categorically unimaginable.

With an obvious ache, you exhale. This does not go unnoticed.

“Where are you? Inside your thoughts?” The warmth of his breath hits your neck as he coaxes, gentle as ever. “Come out, come out...”

“Gabe-” You begin.

“Yes, Cariño, talk to me...”

“I-” You began, froze, unpack, try again. “I _hate_ when you go, more than anything. I hate thinking and knowing that you could be in danger, that every time you leave you're risking your life." If there was a word that was stronger but just as simple, you would have used it instead. Hate was a useful but bitter placeholder that he endures for your sake all the same.

“I know,” he assures you.

“So— _don’t_.”

It's a foolish thing to say and it earns a cynical half-smile in return. You understand his primary drive, that nothing can stand in the way between him and action— even if it is ultimately his undoing.

So, he states, evenly, a blatant oversimplification and testament to his patience. “Let’s say I don’t... Let's say I stay here and ignore everything going on outside. I know you would be happy, I know I would be happy, but we have windows and we see life outside as it passes by. Would you really prefer that I turn my back on all of my obligations and ignore the suffering of our neighbours? That I should— or even _could_ leave humanity to look after itself?”

You know he grew into his seriousness having seen the world at its ugliest and grimiest, never imagining him as a hard-nosed kid. His personality adapted and modified simply because it had to, leaving him consistently able to manage with startling, diplomatic ease. Gabriel had always left you feeling sweetly rewarded that you had met him when you did, full-souled and practical. The virgo sun, the intellectual progeny of long-deceased parents, the dedicated and deserving commander. You loved him for his odd rituals, his quick wit.

“Cariño…” Gabriel speaks through a tight, wry smile in an attempt to cajole a response from you. “I wasn’t serious, I was just teasing. I know the questions answer themselves.”

“I know that too.”

His voice darkens, promising with essential depth, “I’ll be careful. For you, I always am.”

Gabriel's focus was borderline perfection, obsession. It could have went without mentioning, you had known him long enough and well enough to verify the claim.

“I know…” You repeat. You do, but you tend to forget.

Dread locks his teeth together, momentarily. The redundancy offers a kind of familiarity, a well-taken path home. He ensures that it stays fresh in your mind. He's careful today, he'll be careful tomorrow. Next week, next month, next year. Always. 

"If it was up to me and what I wanted, this would all be different. You know that too, don’t you?”

You choose silence, answering instead by a cautious swivel of your chin. Looking into his face, you pinpoint a helplessness. He clasps his hand at your jaw, gently, but just enough to ensure you're level with his soft stare.

“I have competent agents.” Gabriel reasons but something else tugs on his voice. “I won’t always have to go with them, I’ll be home more…”

“But when?”

His hand drops from your face.

“If I could answer that, I wouldn’t wait for you to ask me.” He says, with emphasis. “It’s unfair.”

You take your time to respond, extending the silence.

“You’re right, Gabe. _It is unfair_  and none of it is the way it should be.”

He scoffs to himself before standing, rising into his full height. It isn't a gesture to preface storming out of the room but instead one of persistence. He hovers before you with both of his hands extended. You were too like-minded, too spiritually akin; the tension had already passed. 

“But— we can handle it. In the meantime. It won’t be like this forever. Can't be—  I won't let it.” He says, sounding very sure of himself. "It's this way, just for now."

You marvel at the strength of his arms as he helps you to your feet.

“Have you considered sending a replacement?" You ask, knowing he thinks about it every single time he has to leave home. 

“Wish I could...” He murmurs as he brings you closer to his chest, kissing the top of your head then pressing his cheek to your scalp. You are completely enveloped and little else matters. _Thump thump thump_ , goes his heartbeat in your ear. “Who do you suggest?”

“McCree? Shimada? One of them? Both?”

"Ah!" He laughs without restraint. “The thing is, it's my job to stop catastrophes, not create them.”


	2. Someday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adapted, wine-fuelled version of [this post from my Tumblr](https://my-ultimate-is-ready.tumblr.com/post/165588926133/how-about-domestic-gabe-just-being-a-genuinely).

*

Gabriel sits on the edge of your shared bed, staring up at the sky. The waning moon is a distant splinter of gold through heavy curtains that frame the window. He is reminded that the last time he was home, it had been waxing. He calculates the time spent away as he envisions lunar phases. He thinks about space and floating, he imagines being weightless. But as his mind wanders, he begins to recognize a loss— formless and great, a nebulous restlessness— one that he can sometimes forget about when the timezone is fluid and shifting around him. As you sleep next to him, his eyes flutter shut in concentration. Will he remember shape of the room, the exact width and depth of a peaceful night? He presses his palms over his face and listens to your calm breathing next to him. He tells himself its real. He tells himself he can relax but his shoulders remain tense as if an a crash is eminent.

It always feels like a memory. Like a dream.

He eventually eases himself back, free of the blanket, laying with his head in the pillows turned towards you. He knows what you would say if you knew he was awake, he knows how deep your concern for his health and wellbeing goes. Sleep finds him, eventually, after the acceptance of insomnia had looped about his mind.

The sky loses its darkness and Gabriel decides it is time to start the day; even considering all the hours lost and gained, his internal alarm clock is predictable. From the bedroom to the kitchen in sweatpants and his well-worn unzipped sweater, he moves with the intention of preparing coffee. The process that used to be tedious comes to him as a small luxury, reacquainting himself with the pattern ingrained along the countertop, the smoothness of the clay tile under his feet, the smell of ripe fruit and fresh bread. These are the things he forgets he misses until they’re _right there_ but the electric kettle makes a sudden sound that pulls him out of it all like a hypnotist snapping their fingers.

He decides to take his then steaming mug to the backyard; outside is overcast and rain is eminent. He zips his sweater up to protect himself from the cool air settling over his skin. He inhales deeply but it halts in his throat. It registers as pain or discomfort or worse but he pretends it doesn't. It's too easy for him to lose himself in fear of the unknown and incalculable. Simple things, breathing and sleeping, are not as straightforward as they used to be. Simple things have begun a silent, rapid deterioration. He narrowly avoids falling into a grave conclusion, inhaling just as deeply as before in reassurance that maybe he’s imagined all of it. Maybe it's nothing.

Gabriel takes a solemn sip with a sense of appreciation that at least there is hot coffee and that is somehow enough.

The neighbor’s dog hears the sliding door and stalks into the yard. Biscuit is an Ibizan Hound, wiry and agile. Her ears are straight, her tail is long with the slightest curve. The unpopularity of her breed makes her a distinct black sheep of the neighbourhood even though her coat is white and red. Gabriel smiles at her and sets his mug down, freeing his hands to motion the dog over. Biscuit approaches him without reservation and he cups her excited face. He offers her several hardy  _“yes, I missed you too”_ pats, forgetting entirely that the world extends beyond the fence. He's almost convinced that it shouldn't— just for today, at least.

*

You join Gabriel once you get up, slipping outside to link an arm with his and resting your head at his side; a gesture he accepts with a dignified readjustment of his posture. He is forever relieved to have you near. You stand in comfortable silence after exchanging _good mornings_ , Gabriel's sleep-worn voice not without the sound of a smile as the neighbor’s dog rushes about the grass in front of you, giving off delighted barks. You are both thankful for mornings like this, rare as they are, taking turns throwing a rubber bone across the yard that Biscuit had once tried and failed to bury, having it obediently returned to your outstretched palms.

The simple action speaks to you of the future. You've been witness to the way Gabriel's eyes follow neighbourhood dogs, the friendly cats that he crouches low to the ground to greet.  _“It wouldn’t be fair to adopt now, I’m never home…”_ Uttered always with a firm shake of his head. _Never_ is an honest but painful word. It is, of course, unfair to your relationship, too— but that is something that is mentioned less and felt more. The game of fetch carries on until your neighbor calls for the dog back. Biscuit does one last high-powered zig-zag over the lawn before departing.

Blackwatch is a remarkably high-risk operation— another topic left unmentioned although felt constantly. _When_ is all the same replaced with _if_. _”When I retire…” If I retire… If I make it._  You give Gabriel's arm a reassuring squeeze, aware of the low after the high like a prominent dip in the track of a roller-coaster. His gaze slips to the silver ring on your finger that reaches out towards him, isolating the weight of his own ring before letting out a long exhale.

“Someday.” Gabriel runs his tongue along his bottom lip, pensive, before gently clearing his throat. “Someday it's going to be me or you calling our crazy dog inside because they're barking at 6 AM on a Sunday when the whole world is asleep.”

But someday is still undefinable and the condition kills you slowly. Someday is still unsure.

"I can hardly wait." You say, your voice betrayed by awareness.

It is not long after this that the weather turns. The sky has become taut and grey and no longer promises to hold. Gabriel finishes the last sips of his coffee from the ceramic mug you bought him a year or so back with  _”world’s okayest commander”_  printed on the side. (If asked, as guests often do, he admits to it being among his most treasured possessions.) He mentions breakfast with an irresponsible arch of his brow and you understand that he is eager to shed the stiffness of bad probability that lingers. You retreat to the kitchen together and formulate a game plan as he gathers produce from the fridge.

“So, who’s playing chef today? Me? You? Alright Cariño, should I start with these?”

You wonder how you get through mornings without his directions. You wonder how many soldiers feel the same.

He begins to chop an onion with a utility knife, stopping to peel off the papery layers off the halves and setting them aside. You watch him, stunned at the natural precision that finds him has he resumes the process. He maintains the quiet and conscientious air of someone who has been cooking all of their life. Vertical, perpendicular, careful of his knuckles. You wonder what is going on in his mind until the thought fills you with dread— you love him so wholly and completely when he is there, wrapped up in the mundane. You are continually hit with how much you have come to need him in your life. The lifeless red eyes of the Blackwatch logo on his sleeve has been staring at you for longer than you've been watching him. You know its only thread but you also know its only Gabriel cutting onions and maybe _everything_ has a little more meaning than what you find on the surface. You turn away from the goat skull to check on the hissing skillet.

With breakfast prepared, you sit at the kitchen island in chairs that are angled so your knees touch. Purposely. He feeds you the first bite from his fork, a smitten look curling over his face as he does so. You lean in, placing a hand on the inside of his thigh, eating together and laughing together and forgetting one more time that he can't stay.

It always feels like a dream.


	3. A Non-Traditional Family

*

A rare occasion presents itself.

Gabriel's two "favourite" Blackwatch agents are briefly passing through LAX before enjoying some hard-earned time-off. He's invited them over with the promise of a nice meal for the trouble of combatting traffic. After spending most of the morning and early afternoon cooking, you volunteering to help when he has too many elements going, headlights come blazing down the street and slice through the dusking sky.

Jesse McCree is the first of the two to arrive, charming as ever and handsome in his autumnal-coloured plaid with the sleeves neatly rolled to his forearms. You assume he has even polished his outrageous belt buckle just for the occasion. When you greet him at the door, he pulls you in for a great bear-hug that knocks his cowboy hat askew.

You wheeze, briefly immobilized. "It's always good to see you, Jesse.”

"Likewise," Jesse returns. You know he means it by the way his voice pinches.

After telling everyone he isn't available, Genji shows up. Gabriel puts a place-setting together, altogether unsurprised over his change of plans, as you get the door. Genji gives a deep nod in appreciation for your hospitality and you give him a warm hug in return. A short noise of surprise catches in his throat but then he sighs, contentedly. He is dressed casually, camouflaging his cybernetics underneath loose layers. His standard chrome faceplates have also been left unequipped and you witness every emotion as it works through his features— as it works through him.

"I'm sorry I'm late."

"Actually, your timing is perfect. I'm just glad you could make it.”

“I’m glad too.” Genji says with another satisfied huff, the strain in his brow departs. He understands then that he’s welcome and deserving of being there— foolish that he had prepared to feel otherwise.

Genji follows you from the entrance down the hallway as his eyes rove over the walls. He takes everything in, processing details left undecided about the Blackwatch commander. _Who is he when he's not at work, who is he when he's alone?_  

Flickering tea-lights bring out the reds and golds of the walnut tabletop and wind howls softly from outside reminding you that winter is around the corner. Genji finds his place and sits. You half-expect Gabriel to make a joke about Genji being late or getting lost along the way but he simply asks what to pour for him.

“Water is fine," Genji says, pulling a face. He explains with what is supposed to be impartiality but rolls off his tongue with a cloaked annoyance, "Dr. Zeigler prefers that I abstain from alcoholic substances..."

This merits a side-eye from Jesse, who has an elbow propped on the table. He responds as if it's more or less obvious. “Well, she ain’t here now, is she? Think we'd tattle on you?”

Genji sank into a mischievousness with a tight smile, noticing everyone else's glasses. “Perhaps wine will be okay.”

Gabriel rolls the bottle from one hand to the other, inspecting the label. “You know, I should tell you to listen to what the doctor says... but we did buy this just for tonight.”

He looks toward you as if for permission and you give a subtle nod before he brings the bottle over. He stands behind Genji's chair and goes to fill the glass, making sure to pat his other hand down on the cyborg's shoulder in a voiceless _hello_ before walking away. Genji’s chin follows the placement of the commander's hand; he treasures the moments where he can pretend to be a part of a functional, healthy household. Gabriel tops up all the other cups before setting the bottle back on the kitchen island for later.

You assist with plating. The boys insist on helping too but Gabriel won't let them, determined that all the hosting duties remain his (and yours.) He orders them to sit on their hands and Jesse takes it literally just to prove a point. The room is filled with a short outburst of Genji's silvery laughter.

Once you are all seated, you raise your glasses in a toast. The wine warms the back of your throat like a friendly fire. Jesse, who prefers whiskey and bourbon, admits with a broad smile that it tastes much better than he thought it would.

Gabriel asks Genji if the wine is worth breaking Angela's rule.

"I think so." Genji pauses, searching, his face angled towards his lap. You see a grin stretch over his lips before he looks back up and attempts: " _Está muy bueno._ "

“Oh?” Gabriel is momentarily stunned that Genji has picked up even a single word in Spanish. “ _¡Me alegra oírlo!_ ”

Talking is easy. Everyone feels responsible to not let the mood darken and there is no mention of politics or war. Gabriel cannot resist filtering in dad jokes when the conversation sets him up to make them; for however corny they are, they are no less appreciated by you and your guests.

"I haven't eaten like this in a long time." Genji says.

"I haven't eaten like this since the last time I was over for dinner." Jesse says.

"I haven't cooked like this since Jesse was here." Gabriel taunts, propping his forearms on the table and clasping his hands.

There are no leftovers.

“Don’t think I could manage another bite…” Jesse says, prefacing his last forkful.

Graciously stacking his cutlery on his empty plate, Genji hums in agreement.

“Is now a bad time to mention there’s desert?” You ask from overtop of your glass, sharing a devilish look with Gabriel who has been observing you for the past little while. You wonder if the wine has gone to his head but you often wonder what he's thinking about when he looks at you so calmly, almost shyly. You feel his focus in your veins, in bursts. It consumes you completely and for a moment your mind blanks, nothing else exists save for how much you've missed him while he was gone.

“Beg your pardon,” Jesse says from behind a napkin, looking to you for confirmation. His eyes have widened in interest or terror; you’re inclined to believe it's a mix of the two.

Your focus switches from Jesse back to Gabriel, who has suggestively raised an eyebrow. You continue with newly feigned seriousness: “Latest Blackwatch intelligence indicates there's cheesecake.”

Jesse makes desperate eye-contact with Genji. A thread of disbelief tugs at his words. “You hearin' this?”

"Reyes here." Gabriel breaks his silence, his voice becomes a dangerous growl as he plays along with you. “Assets report there’s blackberry sauce, too.”

“Oh!” You add, smiling down the table. "Lives are at stake here, people. The very fate of humanity rests on your capable shoulders. Do us proud."

Genji dutifully picked his utensils back up.

Jesse scowled. “I’ll have you both know: you’re despicable for not tellin’ me sooner…”

"I can live with that," Gabriel says with a shrug.

All is forgiven once you collect the springform pan from the fridge, bringing it to the table where the conversation pauses appropriately. The shimmering dark purple of the blackberry against the perfectly golden baked surface is a thing of beauty. You are so proud of Gabriel, your Vigro and his remarkable attention to detail in everything, wondering how he manages to be a dedicated soilder capable of baking a perfect cheesecake that would have even Martha Stewart stall for words.

You carefully divide it into equal parts, serving your guests first. It is silken and luscious and the room shuts up completely to savour the first bite. Why speak when there is a sinfully good cake that needs to be devoured?

Genji's bottom lip is faintly stained with blackberry; he finishes 3 slices, deciding it's imperative that he has 1 more than the 2 Jesse eats. You're impressed with their dedication and appetite, Gabriel is desensitized to their endless competition but privately triumphant all the same.

“We should do this more often,” you say, wondering where the evening went. The room agrees, solidly. 

Gabriel looks off, unfocused; he knows why you can’t but that doesn’t make the desire any less strong.

Eventually, Genji thanks you and Gabriel profusely for looking after him so well, giving a deep bow of appreciation before taking off into the night. McCree on the other hand winds up on the couch in your living room, resting his head on a pillow. You bring him a glass of water, setting it on the low coffee table.

He peaks an eye open. "I'm so stuffed, I don't think I can move just yet."

"Guess you're sleeping here then, kid." Gabriel says with a sigh that is supposed to sound irritated but somehow misses the mark completely. It is not the first time Jesse has crashed on the couch; you and Gabriel entertained buying a house with a spare room just for such an occasion.

"Guess I am." Jesse says, his voice rolling into a yawn.

  * 

You go upstairs to the linen closet to fetch clean pillow cases and the warmest quilt you have for your guest. As you balance on the tips of your toes, straining, the blanket sitting on a shelf that is annoyingly just outside your reach, you feel Gabriel's warm hands slide around your waist. You squeak in surprise and shrink back down, pressing your back against his chest. His chin goes to rest at your shoulder as he murmurs against the skin of your cheek, a fine shiver works its way up your body: "Tonight, I'm happy."

He deserves a few hours of normaility. _This is the life we could be living_ , you think.

"When you're happy, I'm happy," you say.

Gabriel releases you from his arms to grab the quilt for you.

*

As you re-enter the living room, you see that Jesse has left his spot on the couch. You know from where he stands, over by the bookshelves, what his attention is pulled towards. Some parents have photographs of their children in sports teams, horseback riding, piano recitals— Gabriel has a framed picture commemorating Jesse's first successful mission with Blackwatch. He was all lopsided smile and ill-fitting uniform then, reluctantly posing with both middle fingers raised.

Without a comment, Jesse sets it back in its place on the shelf. His voice is softened as he turns to face you. 

“Ought'ta thank you once again for lettin’ me stay the night. You sure the commander doesn't mind none? I'd hate to be a burden..."

"You're _family_. You're welcome to stay here anytime.”

Jesse paces around the low table, dropping down onto the sofa. His limbs are loose with relief; perhaps the thought that he was imposing made him consider otherwise. He takes a slow sip from the glass of water you brought him earlier before setting it back down on the coaster. You take the pause to turn your back to him and adjust the drapes around the room so the sun doesn't blind him once morning comes. 

When Jesse decides to speak again, his voice is thankful and dreamy.

“... Never once thought I'd find a place t'call _home_ again."

 * 

You wake up before Gabriel and spend the first few minutes of fresh consciousness savouring the warmth of your bed. Going downstairs, you find Jesse hobbling into the kitchen to refill his empty water glass. His hair is slept-on, brown eyes tightened with sleep. You can tell he's half-awake but he grins toothily when he sees he's not alone.

"Mornin'!"

You ask him if he slept alright and he responds enthusiastically— _like a log_. Jesse tells you about the strange dream he had and you help interpret it. You continue talking for a few more minutes until he interrupts his own story to ask if he can make you breakfast. He says while he can't out-cook the commander, he does some pretty damn good hash browns. You jokingly tell him to prove it and before you can stop him, he goes to the fridge.

Jesse expertly shreds russet potatoes as you make coffee. He works around you as you talk him through which cupboard has the bowls and spices he asks for. Soon, the offer of hash browns evolves into bacon and eggs and toast. 

Gabriel makes his appearance, shuffling barefoot onto the clay tile floor.

“You’re still here?” He says to Jesse, sniffing the air. Butter, paprika, cayenne.

“Like hell I’m going anywhere without breakfast, boss.”

“Great.” Gabriel's voice is level, denying the intense sentimentality he was unprepared to feel first thing in the morning. “So where’s your _brother_ at?”

“I already sent him a text." Jesse responds without looking away from the skillet. "He said he’d consider coming back if he happened to be in the neighbourhood—”

There was a well-timed knock at the front door.

As if were his own house, Jesse bounds down the hallway. “I’ll get it!” He announces, oven mitt on one hand and spatula in the other. Once it is just you and Gabriel in the room, you're pulled in for a quick, chaste kiss. The one makes your heart flutter, you steal a second and third but separate when Jesse returns to the kitchen with Genji. The cyborg looks sleepless, his blue black hair is smoothed back and the air about him is cold. Even so, he is observably grateful to return to a place full of people who care about him and relaxes in a chair diagonally across from Gabriel.

“I heard there was food,” Genji supplies before anyone can ask.

The _world's okayest commander_  cup makes a return and Gabriel murmurs between a sip of coffee. “Mooch.”

Genji sneers, unburdened with the obligation of explaining. The real reason was already understood.

You are convinced you could spend every morning in this way—— but the present was ripe with a distant sadness, a live and working psychology you often tried to avoid. All good things in life were closely shadowed by loss, inevitable and deep.

They always were.

You have breakfast, catching Gabriel repeatedly smiling to himself.


	4. A Lonely Place

*

The coast is a lonely place. You avoid it on _nice_ days, expecting it to be full of sunbathing and surfing, throngs of people that highlight how you're visiting without your other half, that there is a part of you missing in the face of so much life. Even though the coast is a place of terrible beauty— where the sun beats against the broken glass of the sea, smell of salt and foam dominating the stretch of land, gulls swooping in their search for French fries or cracker crumbs— it is a lonely place without him all the same.

Something miraculous happens when you and Gabriel visit the lonely coast on a  _bad_ day, a day where the usual visitors avoid the sweeping expanse of the beach in favour of warmth and shelter. It’s cold and more windy than you'd prefer it as daylight bleeds out. Chiefly, there is no suggestion of another person for miles, just you and him.

This is the way you prefer it.

*

The waves move and roll up the shore like birds walking along a fence. You feel sand in your shoes but can’t bring yourself to care and only listen to the churning water, soaking up the last light. It’s late in the year and the brightness of evening is shorter than the lengthy summer twilight. The sky's brilliance becomes steadily absorbed by the horizon as you move along the sand, walking together without any clear destination in mind but a forward direction.

You’ve latched onto one of Gabriel's arms and he’s fallen into your pace. You’re unhurried, thinking about all that you want to experience with him before his next deployment, trying to organize or prioritize the list. He tells you a story of situational misfortune. It ends in Jesse, for the second time known to your commander, ripping his pants during combat. Gabriel somehow finds the end of the tale without splitting with laughter, but all told, he shakes his head and gives in.

“What am I gonna do with that kid?”

"Well, mend his pants, hopefully.” You nest your head into his shoulder for an affectionate nuzzle. "That could only happen to Jesse."

“He’s lucky I always care a needle and th—"

But, he stops speaking mid-sentence and in turning to the side, he begins to shutter. The cough, again.

You pull back from him because you are somehow sure you can feel it spreading through him with where you had been resting your ear. You felt it move, or you thought you did. Supportively flattening a hand to his back, you track the agitation of his lungs through your palm.

“I really don’t like this cough of yours. It doesn’t sound like it’s getting any better.”

Gabriel challenges himself to take a breath, unburdened, tentatively inhaling. It seems to be okay and he repeats himself again and again until he can stand tall without shuddering. Even as his breathing is audibly less irritated, it is still remarkably coarse. There is nothing in the sound that gives you any firm relief.

“I’m not exactly loving it either,” he admits, low and rasping. “Thought it would just go away by itself, maybe I'm allergic to something. Dunno.”

“It sounds— _mean_ ,” you say, for lack of a better word. You've identified that the cough is buried deep inside his chest and the insinuation of an intrusion, even one on a microscopic scale as it is, makes you angry. The anger is not with him but towards the flippant attitude. 

“It's _mean_?” He clears his throat, turning back into your look of concern as he repeats what you've said. Every time you see him his facial hair looks slightly greyer which only intensifies his gaze and the eyes you love so dearly. “It’s a cough, Cariño, it's not a person... but I guess, if it were, it be one persistent sonofabitch..."

You continue walking, sliding your hold on him from the crook of his arm down to his wrist. You squeeze your fingers around his as if he were about to slip away and he reassures you by looking over, showing you that he feels the degree of concern in your hands. Communication by touching.

“Have you gotten a medical opinion yet?” You ask, looking toward the side of his face, frozen in a stoic expression, then past it as the last slices of sunlight break over the moving water. “... You said you would. Last month.”

Gabriel never takes sick days. They’re never a viable option but even if they were you are not sold on the idea that he would use them. Instead, he takes strong prescriptions or drinks all varieties of medicinal tonics, anything to patch himself up and move along.

He gave a guilt-ridden grin before casting his gaze toward his feet. “Uh, not recently… But, that doesn’t mean I wont. I still plan on talking to one of our medics, there just— hasn’t been any time lately.”

“There’s time now,” you say, something close to pleading.

“This is our time together.” He reminds you, stubbornly. Or fearfully, for what a doctor might have to say about it.

“Gabe, _please_ see someone.”

He is weak to the sound of your voice and the way the words fray, unraveling in the salt air. He presses a hand to your cheek, holding the side of your face. He looks at you as if he can read your thoughts.

“I know, I know,” he soothes. His expression is unshaken, save for in his eyes. “I'm sorry. I get lost in everything that has to get done sometimes but I will, alright? I promise.”

"Ask the first medic you see.”

“The very first that crosses my path when I go back to work,” he continues to assure you, his hand remains but his thumb moves up your chin, skimming over the corner of your bottom lip. “I’ll flag them down and I’ll try not to cough all over them too but no promises on that part.”

“Tell me as soon as you do, okay? I want to be the first person to know you've seen a doctor.”

“What if I put you on speakerphone? We can all have one big conference call about my health... Hell, I’ll dial up SEP while I’m at it and ask them what kind of prank they’ve pulled on my immune system.” He offers as if it’s a joke but he’s only partially kidding. He would if you asked. You give him a wary look and he endures it. You know there is so much strength in his silence, you know he understands your concern for him only grows like roots, diving into the earth, continuously reaching downwards through the dirt.

“Maybe you should,” you say with a pout. “Maybe that would let me think about anything else so that I’m not pulling out my phone to text you each time I see a commercial for cough syrup.”

“Whatever you want, whatever it takes to put that mind of yours at ease.” He says, with a tilt of his head. “We have a deal?”

“We do,” you agree, puckering to kiss his thumb that’s been lingering on your lip.

He smirks, audibly, as if to say _even when you’re making faces you look so cute are you kidding me_  and kisses you back. His hands slip down to your waist to pull you closer into him. With his lips over yours, there is absolutely nothing left to say.

*

Leaving the deserted beach and after a short drive down the coastal highway, Gabriel drives back. He hands you the AUX cord and you get to play DJ. The car’s skylight lets the night inside. You lean over the console and place a palm on his thigh, he looks briefly over his shoulder to catch you mouthing the words to your music in the low, electric blue light of the dashboard.

Once you’re home, you hold onto him for support in the driveway, preemptively kicking your shoes off to shake the sand out of them. He laughs and asks how you managed to bring the entire beach home as if you had done so with intention. You give him a slow clap and ask when he’s going to retire to become a comedian. He assures you that he can do both.

“Commander… Comedian… They even sound alike.”

You wind up on the couch in the living room tucked into his side, resting your head on his shoulder. You feel sleep make keeping your eyes open increasingly impossible and eventually give in, absorbing the quiet strength of your partner as he sits. He sips a coffee (which is debatably decaf) with the hand furthest from you, watching whatever program is playing on the TV with half-interest. His head is stuck on the last conversation with O'Deorain and all the things she's said that he’s been privately considering.


End file.
